


Winter Concert

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Work friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:58:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas season at the police station. It's time for Morse's choral group to give their winter concert. He invites the Thursdays, but mysteries to solve mean a mad rush for Fred and Morse to get to the concert on time. Gratuitous Fred in a Father Christmas costume. Set between "Rocket" and "Home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Concert

**Author's Note:**

> "Home" has a time discrepancy: Alistair Coke Norris' taxi receipt is dated 1 December 1965, while Strange's sgt. exam is dated 26/1/66. Since I noticed the exam date first, I've been dating "Home" to the last part of January 1966. This story fits better if "Home" occurred the last part of January, so that's the timeline I'm using here.

"I suppose it adds to the holiday air," CS Bright mused to Fred Thursday. 'It' was Morse, softly singing the _Coventry Carol_ in a silvery tenor as he thumbed through a drawer of cards with mugshots. He didn't even seem aware he was doing it.

"He's got a concert coming up with his choral group, sir." Fred hoped his superior wouldn't find fault with the young man yet again. It wasn't like a bit of singing in the CID office would hurt anything, but one never knew with Bright, especially when it came to Morse.

Morse, meanwhile, had found what he was looking for and returned to his desk to make a note on a report. As he rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter, he noticed that the rest of the office was listening to him (even Jakes, which felt weird), mumbled an awkward apology, and focused intently on his work, blushing.

"I don't even realize I'm doing it," he told Fred when he handed over the report. "There's a part where the harmony gets a bit tricky, and I'm afraid I'll hit the wrong note. I missed a rehearsal during that case last week, and have some catching up to do."

"I don't think anyone minds. Adds to the holiday atmosphere." They both smiled at that. Morse had come in the first of December to find the station, including the CID office, decked out in tinsel garlands, paper snowflakes, and fairy lights. Bright couldn't seem to decide if it was unprofessional or a charming show of holiday spirit. Even a little artificial tree stood on a table in the lobby, beside a donation box. Fred had told Morse that it was a tradition with the Oxford City Police to distribute Christmas gifts at the children's wards of local hospitals, and their station always took care of Cowley Hospital.

"CS Crisp used to dress up as Father Christmas to hand out the gifts," Fred had told him. "Don't know who they'll get to do it now. Bright doesn't strike me as the type."

Jakes knocked on the doorframe. "Report's just come in, sir. Body washed up at Farmoor Reservoir."

"Get your coat, Morse. It's brisk out there."

*****

The body was that of a sandy-haired young man. He had probably been good-looking in life, but as a bloated corpse was hard for anyone but DeBryn to look at. 

"Blimey, he's a kid," Strange remarked. He'd been sent along with a few other constables to guard the scene.

Max DeBryn was examining the body. "He's been in the water for a few days. Even with the cold weather, there's the beginning of decomposition, some skin slippage." For once, Morse wasn't the only one looking queasy. "I'll be able to tell you more after the postmortem, but I don't see any gunshot wounds or blunt trauma. Likely a drowning."

"Out for a hike, slipped, and fell." Jakes suggested.

"He's not dressed for serious walking," Morse answered. "Those are ordinary street shoes, and his coat's too light for the weather."

"Killed somewhere else and dumped, then."

"Not if he was drowned."

"Let's wait until we have Max's report," Fred told the younger men, firmly heading off another skirmish in their ongoing rivalry. Sometimes they reminded him of two young bucks clashing their new antlers together.

Back at the station, Morse started going through missing person reports. He found two possible matches to the body in the morgue, and sent them to DeBryn.

*****

The next morning found Morse practicing _Sheep May Safely Graze_ as he dressed. Concerts were always nerve-wracking, but this was worse than usual. Missing a rehearsal this close to the performance worried him.

When Morse reached the station, Max had left a message for him. The drowning victim turned out to be a Lonsdale student named David Callahan. His parents lived in Bristol, so Morse contacted the local police to meet with them. He spent the morning running down leads, talking to Callahan's flatmate and friends. The talk with his tutor proved to be the most enlightening.

"He was doing poorly in his studies," Morse reported to Fred over sandwiches (Tuesday, luncheon meat) and tea in the station canteen. "On the verge of failing out. DeBryn didn't find evidence of anything other than drowning, although it will take awhile to get the results of the blood test."

After lunch there was a call to a dead man, found in his little house in a neighborhood popular with academics. Eighty years old, Emeritus Professor Howard Burns-Smith of Trinity College appeared to have died peacefully at home. His sixty-three-year-old housekeeper was beside herself, sobbing into a handkerchief.

"If I'd known he was so ill, I'd have called his doctor. It was just a touch of dyspepsia, so I made him some broth and tea before I went to bed last night. When he didn't ring for breakfast, I thought he was having a bit of a lie-in, thought it the best thing for him."

Max DeBryn shrugged when Morse asked him about it. "It looks like he died in his sleep. Eighty years old-- he'd had a good run. I'll let you know what turns up, but I'm expecting natural causes."

On the drive back to the station, Morse awkwardly fished a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket at a red light and handed it to Fred. It was a notice for The Oxford Scholars' Choral Association winter concert. "It's this Saturday. I thought-- I thought perhaps you and Mrs. Thursday might like-- might like to, well, attend. If you haven't got anything else planned."

Fred was touched. He looked at the partial list of songs. "We'd like that very much. These are some of Win's favorite Christmas songs. I'll tell her."

"Thanks." 

It was so easy to get a smile from the lad, Thursday thought.

*****

The next day was exhausting. It started with the Callahans, in from Bristol, who identified their son. Fred interviewed them as gently as he could. David had had a girlfriend, but they'd split up mid-summer. He didn't have an enemy in the world; he was quiet and kept to himself. He'd been doing well at school.

"So they didn't know he was failing and about to lose his scholarship," Morse said quietly afterward in Fred's office.

"Give him a motive for suicide, you think?"

"Easily. Sometimes suicide needs even less," Morse answered quietly.

That afternoon they witnessed the postmortem on Burns-Smith.

"The gastric mucosa is unusually irritated for a touch of indigestion," Max noted. Fred was watching, Morse trying to observe from the corner of his eye.

"Something more, like stomach flu? He might not have wanted to go into detail with his housekeeper," Fred suggested.

"It's possible."

There was nothing other than that. "I'll let you know when the blood test comes back. Which reminds me: Callahan, from the reservoir, had a little alcohol in his system. Not much, no more than a pint or so."

"Just enough to do the deed?"

"It's what I thought."

"Thanks, doctor."

There was an extra rehearsal for the concert that night. Morse had to scramble to get there on time after work, but it was a relief to have a break. An elderly man dead after a good life was one thing, but a young suicide brought a twinge to Morse's gut. It reminded him of things best left buried. He let everything go, carried aloft by the music he loved, feeling lighter and more at peace afterward.

*****

On Thursday the Callahan death was officially ruled a suicide, the case closed and the body released to his griefstricken parents. Morse had watched while Fred handled talking to them, wondering if his dad and Gwen-- he wondered if Gwen was really that hard-hearted, if his dad would have-- no. Cyril Morse would have seen it as yet another failure. 

Strange how old wounds could still ache, years later.

There was a car theft reported that caused welcome hilarity in the CID office. "A Reliant Regal," Jakes said, getting off the phone. "If I had a bloody Reliant Regal and it was stolen, I certainly wouldn't report it."

"Have to, to get the insurance if it's not found," Strange reminded him.

"I wouldn't waste the money insuring it." Thursday stepped in from his office. "Got a report on a stolen Reliant Regal, sir."

"Who would steal one of those? Make a better skip than a car." Fred sighed. "Jakes, you see to it."

"Sir, perhaps DC Morse--"

There was an edge to Fred's normally warm voice. "If I wanted him to investigate, I'd send him. Off you go."

After Jakes left in a huff, Morse followed Fred to his office, closing the door behind him. "Sir, perhaps I should have gone--"

"Who's running this office? You, me, or Jakes?"

"You, sir."

"Indeed. Which means I decide who does what. It's bad enough when Jakes gets shirty, without you second-guessing me as well." Fred's tone softened as he started prepping his pipe. "I know you've got to work with him, and you're trying not to make waves with Bright or anyone else. I appreciate it, by the way. But DS Jakes has his own lessons to learn." He lit his pipe and sat back.

Morse was about to leave when there was a knock at the door. A young WPC held out a file. "Dr. DeBryn sent this for DI Thursday," she told Morse with an awkward smile, then looked past him to Fred.

"Thank you." Morse said as he took the file, giving her an equally awkward smile. She was rather pretty.

"You're welcome." After she left, Morse looked at the name on the file.

"It's Professor Burns-Smith."

"What does DeBryn say? Natural causes?"

Morse looked at the report, blue eyes widening. "No, sir. Arsenic."

There was nothing in the investigation file that fired off any ideas. "We'll just have to start doing more interviews," Fred sighed. They spent the rest of the day interviewing Professor Burns-Smith's small circle of friends and acquaintances. From the neighbors they found that he took a walk every afternoon at five, and that in good weather he tended the roses in his garden. From friends and former colleagues they learned he'd never married, and in his younger and middle years had been quite the ladies' man.

Fred and Morse had just finished interviewing one of the professor's former juniors, now a don at Trinity, and were starting back to the station, finished for the day. "Oh, bugger! Morse, we need to stop by that fancy-dress shop off of Queen Street before they close. They're holding a Father Christmas getup for me. I've been dragooned into taking over from Crisp." Morse couldn't help it; he laughed. "Yes, yes, it's quite funny," Fred groused. "My kids have been taking the mickey ever since they heard. Let a man turn fifty and get a bit soft around the middle, suddenly he's gone from Sam Spade to Father Christmas. And now you're laughing as well. Enjoy it while it lasts, Endeavour Morse. Before you know it, you'll be the one looking in the mirror and wondering what the hell happened."

Morse spent the evening savoring a new ale he'd found and reading a text on criminal psychology. The Mason Gull case had triggered his interest in the subject, and he'd been meaning to study up on it.

*****

The next morning was taken up with a CID staff meeting. After lunch they went back to the professor's house to interview his live-in housekeeper, Edna Cooper. She was friendly and hospitable, bringing in a tray with tea and homemade gingerbread biscuits.

"They were Howard's favorites," she quavered, wiping away tears. "I'd just baked a new batch right before-- " she choked back a sob. "I used to bake them every week of December for him. I warmed them for you; it brings out the flavor." 

The gingerbread smelled delicious, but as he lifted a biscuit to his lips Morse caught a whiff of garlic, of all things. He'd helped his mum make gingerbread for Christmas every year as a child until her death, and he knew perfectly well there wasn't supposed to be garlic in it. He hesitated, something niggling in the back of his head.

Fred, meanwhile, waved off the plate with a rueful pat at his middle. "Afraid I've been indulging in holiday treats too much already, but thank you."

While Mrs. Cooper was distracted by Fred, Morse slipped the biscuit into his jacket pocket. He just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Edna Cooper answered all their questions without hesitation, and each time she offered Morse a biscuit he accepted then carefully hid them in his pocket, until he felt safe saying he'd had enough. 

Stopped at a red light afterward, Morse frowned and looked at Fred. "Do housekeepers usually refer to their employers by first name?"

It was Fred's turn to look thoughtful. "Not usually, that I've seen. Then again, with just the two of them sharing the house for thirty years, I suppose the relationship became more informal."

Morse made a beeline for the morgue the first chance he had. DeBryn was surprised to see him. "What brings you here uncoerced?"

"Just a question. Do you know of anything that has a garlic scent, besides garlic?" He drew the handful of biscuits from his pocket. "We were interviewing Burns-Smiths's housekeeper and she offered us these. Said she'd baked them herself, even warmed them for us. Fred begged off, and I almost ate one, but then I smelled garlic on it. I know gingerbread doesn't take garlic."

"Hmm." DeBryn sniffed one. "I don't smell anything."

Morse smelled it, then the others. "But I swear they did."

"Wait a minute." The pathologist's gaze sharpened. "Did you say they were warm?"

"Yes."

"That's the arsenic case?"

"Yes." And Morse understood. He looked at DeBryn, eyes wide. "When you heat arsenic--"

"It can smell like garlic." DeBryn lit a Bunsen burner and held a biscuit over the flame with tongs. They soon smelled a faint hint of garlic. "You have a sensitive nose, Morse. It may have saved your life."

"Stabbed and nearly poisoned. Anybody says Oxford's a quiet posting, I'll have something to say about that."

"I'll test them to be sure this is our murder weapon."

"Thanks."

Morse hurried to Fred's office to tell him the latest development. "It fits. She lived in the house with him and prepared his meals."

Fred's expression had darkened. "If I hadn't been vain about my weight and you hadn't smelled something odd, we'd have both ended up in hospital or the morgue. As soon as you get the report from DeBryn, we'll request a warrant to search the house for the rest of the biscuits and the source of the poison."

DeBryn rushed the test, bringing the results himself. "Full of arsenic. If Morse had eaten those biscuits instead of pocketing them, he'd be deathly ill in hospital right now."

Thursday immediately picked up his phone to request a warrant. "It will likely be late morning before the warrant is in order. I'll place a watch on the house for the evening, make sure she doesn't go anywhere before we can nick her."

"Why would she try to poison us?" Morse mused.

"I'll be sure to ask her when we bring her in," Fred growled.

*****

Morse slept badly, dwelling on Edna Cooper and her poisoned gingerbread. When he did sleep, his waking thoughts entwined with his dreams into twisted fairytales of a witch's house made of poisoned gingerbread, with him trying to keep a horde of people away from it. It was a relief when his alarm clock jangled in his ear.

The morning was spent in routine work at the station, impatiently waiting for the warrant. Near noon, Fred rose from his desk with a sigh. "Time to get ready for the hospital party. I don't mind doing it; I usually help out. I just don't want to wear the silly costume." He took off his suit jacket and tie, shrugging into a long velvet robe trimmed in fake ermine. There was a long white beard and wig, a holly wreath for his head, and a tall staff. "The beard itches," he grumbled. One of the WPCs decided he wasn't rosy enough and dusted his cheeks and the tip of his nose with rouge, while he squinted through the flurry of brush and powder and looked put-upon.

Morse hadn't planned to go along, but his other option was lingering at the office waiting for the warrant. He drove Fred, another car following with two uniformed constables. The boots of both cars were crammed with canvas bags full of gifts. Once at the hospital, Morse and the PCs each shouldered a bag, as did Fred, and they headed upstairs. 

As the lift doors opened, Fred transformed. Father Christmas exited the lift, hearty and cheerful, greeting the staff warmly. Everyone smiled back, and a couple of nurses hurried ahead to open the doors to the children's ward, calling out, "Father Christmas is here!"

The ward turned into cheerful chaos of excited children, their parents smiling despite weariness and worry. The PCs helped Fred pass out gifts, and Morse helped them. Many of the children were as eager to see the constables in their uniforms as they were to see Father Christmas, asking all sorts of questions. Morse, in his suit, got much less attention, which was fine with him. He always felt especially awkward around children.

One little girl tugged at his jacket sleeve. "Are you a policeman too?"

"Yes, I am."

"Why don't you dress like the others?"

"Because I'm a detective."

"What's a 'tective?"

"A policeman who solves mysteries. When something is stolen or someone is hurt, it's our job to find out who did it."

"Can a girl be a 'tective?"

"I don't see why not. Girls can be police officers. We have some back at our station."

"That's good. My brother says girls have to be teachers or nurses. I don't want to be a teacher or a nurse."

"Well, your brother's wrong."

Then it was her turn to see Father Christmas, and she was off without another word.

After distributing gifts to the children, they left a supply for any who were admitted in the week remaining until Christmas. They were just about to leave when an orderly came over from the nurses' station. "There's a call for DI Thursday from the police station."

"That would be me." Fred took the call and returned. "The warrant's come through. Strange and Jakes will meet us at the Burns-Smith house. You two," he said to the PCs, "come with us." He pulled off the Father Christmas robe before he got into the Jaguar, and the wig and beard came off on the way to the house. 

"Are you sure you don't want to make the arrest dressed as Father Christmas?" Morse asked mischievously as he drove.

"Cheeky." Fred was running a pocket comb through his hair.

At the house, the tin of biscuits were on the kitchen counter. Morse lit a gas ring on the cooker and carefully held one over it until he smelled the telltale odor of garlic. The biscuit went back in the tin, which was tagged as evidence. Jakes, Strange, and the PCs fanned out through the house and garden. It was Strange who found a bottle of arsenic-laced ant poison in the shed.

"Edna Cooper, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Howard Burns-Smith," Fred told the housekeeper. It ended up being one of the weirdest collars Morse had ever had: marching an elderly little housekeeper off to jail for poisoning the employer she'd been looking after for the last thirty years. 

At the station, Fred put on his suit jacket and tie before he and Morse faced Edna Cooper in an interrogation room. "Mrs. Cooper, why did you do it?" he asked quietly.

"Thirty years," she said through tears. "You give a man thirty years of your life. Cook for him, clean up after him, keep him comfortable, share his bed, love him with your whole heart, and all you ask for after thirty years is that he marry you, so you can spend the last bit of your lives together. But what does he say? That he won't marry! That he's a confirmed bachelor! What sort of bachelor sleeps with the same woman for thirty years?"

Morse awkwardly nudged a box of tissues across the table to her. Edna Cooper took a handful gratefully. "Would it have been too much to give? Then he told me-- he told me if I kept on about marriage, he'd fire me! After thirty years together! So I-- I got the ant poison out of the shed and mixed some into the gingerbread dough Monday morning. He always did love my gingerbread biscuits."

"But arsenic wouldn't make for a peaceful death," Morse observed quietly.

"Oh, no, it made him terribly ill. I never dreamt it would do that. I looked after him, cleaned him up. After he passed, I laid him out in clean bedding and pyjamas. He looked just like he was sleeping-- just like he was sleeping." She dissolved into tears again.

When she had calmed down somewhat, Fred asked his next question. "Why did you give DS Morse and myself poisoned biscuits?"

Edna Cooper stared at him. "I didn't give you the bad biscuits. I baked two batches: one for Howard, and one to share with the neighbor children. They look forward to my gingerbread all year. I binned the bad biscuits yesterday morning, before you and Mr. Morse arrived."

"You gave us the bad ones," Morse told her quietly.

"If he hadn't smelled something off about them and I wasn't watching my weight, we'd both likely be dead, or close to it," Fred said sharply.

Mrs. Cooper's eyes went wide and she burst into even wilder tears than before. "Dear god, I put the wrong batch in the rubbish! If-- if I'd given those to the children-- oh god, oh god! I'm so sorry! It was a mistake! I never meant to hurt anyone but Howard!" She huddled in her chair, sobbing.

"I think we've got what we need," Fred told Morse quietly. "Take her to a cell."

"Yes, sir." Morse helped her stand, supporting her firmly by the arm. "Come along, Mrs. Cooper," he said gently as he steered her from the room. As they went down the hall, Fred could hear her still sobbing out apologies and "oh god, the children," while Morse murmured to her as soothingly as he could. He booked her and placed her in a cell, then returned upstairs, meeting Fred in the DI's office.

"Hell hath no fury," Fred quoted wryly. "But sometimes it's the ones you least expect."

"I don't understand it," Morse admitted. "After that many years, why didn't he just marry her? He was eighty and had a heart condition-- he wasn't likely to find someone new at that point."

"And if he did, the excitement would have killed him." Fred shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he prized the idea of his footloose and fancy free bachelorhood too much, never mind the reality." 

Morse glanced at his watch and gave a little gasp. "It's five-fifteen. I'm supposed to be at the hall for warmups in fifteen minutes."

"Best get downstairs, then. I'll drive you. Plenty of time to get there from here."

"I have to stop by my flat to change first." 

Fred drove the Jaguar, Morse wriggling out of his suit jacket, shirt, and tie, then waited while the younger man raced upstairs. Morse dumped his clothes on the bed, changed his trousers, grabbed a fresh white shirt, his black bow tie and dress jacket, and flew downstairs, scrambling into the back seat. 

Fred drove as quickly as he dared. "Shame we can't use the light and siren." Behind him Morse put on his shirt. "Turn coming up. Hang on." Then he slipped into his jacket and started working on his bow tie.

Fred pulled the Jaguar into a space, stopping smoothly. "Let's have a look at you then." They both got out of the car. "Tuck in your shirt a bit more." Morse did as told and buttoned his jacket. Fred straightened his bow tie. "You'll do, lad." He checked his watch. "And only five minutes late. You go in and warm up while I pick up the girls."

"Girls?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? Sam has a Christmas do at work, but Joan's coming along with us. Well? Off with you, Morse." He made a shooing motion, and his stunned bagman turned and trotted up the walkway, heart now hammering with more than just pre-concert nerves.

*****

When he filed out onto the stage with the rest of the chorus, Morse couldn't help himself: he scanned the crowd for the Thursdays, feeling a bit like a child looking for his parents at the school play. He located them a few rows back and felt oddly relieved that they'd kept their word and attended. The chorus opened with _What Child is This?_ and followed with _Sheep May Safely Graze_. Then there were some Renaissance and Baroque pieces, the _Coventry Carol_ , and _Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring_. Once he was singing with the group, Morse's nerves faded away as they usually did. In the audience, Win listened to her favorites with her eyes closed, Fred's arm around her shoulders. On her other side, Joan was surprised at how much she was enjoying the music. She watched as well, seeing the pleasure on Morse's face as he sang. When he led a madrigal she noted that he had a lovely tenor, at once silvery and warm. She tried to pick out his voice among the others for the rest of the performance.

At the reception afterward, Morse and Fred spotted one another at the same time, and Fred led his family over. "Splendid performance, Morse."

"Thank you, sir."

"Absolutely lovely, dear," Win told him, grasping his hands warmly in hers.

Joan was pretty in a deep green velvet dress. "I enjoyed it very much."

"Thanks." His awkwardness intensified when she told him how much she liked his singing voice, making him blush.

As the four of them chatted, others stopped to congratulate Morse on the concert. Dorothea Frazil squeezed his shoulder. "My singing detective. I could still do a story, if you've changed your mind." Morse shook his head, blushing.

"What was that about?" Fred asked after she'd moved on to chat with the choirmaster.

Morse sighed. "She wants to write a story about me for the paper. The Singing Detective, she called it." He grimaced. "Can you imagine how Jakes would react? He'd never stop taking the mickey."

Fred shook his head, resting his hand on Morse's shoulder for a moment. "You mustn't let him get to you, lad."

"I know."

"Let us give you a lift home. Save you waiting for the bus in the cold. They're predicting a bit of snow overnight."

"Does the car need to be turned in?"

"I'll do it tomorrow afternoon, after I use it to run errands with Win. Perks of the position. The cold goes right through her this time of year."

"Thanks."

Back at his bedsit, after dropping a few coins in the gas meter to take off the chill, Morse quietly sang _What Child is This?_ while he put away the clothes he'd tossed on the bed earlier, did what little tidying there was, and changed into pyjamas. Closing the heavy curtains, he stopped to look outside at the familiar silhouettes of spires and the Camera.

Snowflakes were falling past the window, already forming little drifts where the street met the pavement. By morning Oxford would be wearing a light white coat. He leaned against the window frame, watching the snow fall, enjoying the silence that accompanied it. Tomorrow would be a good day to curl up with a book and tea and just relax after a long, tiring week.

He was already looking forward to it.


End file.
